"The
state has control of judges, lawmakers, hired guns, lobbyists,
influence peddlers, utilization of the underworld, you know that."

"We
have secrets then to share?"

"That's
what makes this alliance intriguing."

"So
where did those two go?"

"We
are not aligned. I don't know."

"But
you're familiar with them."

"Only
insofar as a brief historical encounter."

"The
collapsed boardwalk then?"

"A
mere demonstration, I suppose. There may have been another motive."

"We
both have familiarities, then. To me it was a hallucination, an
illusion. Nothing in the newspapers."

"Depends
on the frame of reference, doesn't it?"

The
two stopped walking, realizing they lost their bearings and an actual
physical connection with each other, rapt in conversation. Both
Agents ran their maps through their minds, pinpointing icons showing
their locations, now several blocks apart, but converging.

Agent
Two: "Our physical destination must be the convergence point."

Agent
One: "I'll meet you there."

At
that moment, police and fire engine sirens shot cascading shrill
echoes through nearby skyscrapers. Both Agents received enforcement
alerts: "The Museum of Culture!" They arrived within
seconds, showed respective security badges, passed through quickly
set up barricades, and stepped inside. The floors and walls looked
empty. The intrusion alerts quieted and a guard pointed upward. All
the works of that gallery appeared to have been spread across the
ceiling, undamaged, but inaccessible beyond neon-colored wires.

"They're
attached, perhaps they can't be removed, even if we get through the
wires," a museum official announced. "Just this gallery."

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

I probably don't need to say this -- it helps me that the clarification is specified though.Some texts in posts have since been altered, even radically, as I weave things in a story.Drafts, then, is what's in this blog.Posted with trepidation.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Speaker One and Speaker Two sat at a little round
cafe table in the middle of a noisy chain restaurant and bar. The waitress
came.

Speaker One: The special.

Speaker Two: The same.

She: Will it be the same then?

Both speakers: Of course, what else?

When She returned, She brought blackened catfish,
baked potato and mixed vegetables for Speaker One and placed it on the table. In
front of Speaker Two, She placed barbecued chicken wings, celery and sauce, and
french fries. Voilá, She said.

Both speakers: See? The special. The same.

The bartender, He, shouted to the other patrons to
rise, circle their table, and applaud.

Speaker Two: No illusions here.

Speaker One: Thank you, all. Thank you. Enjoy our
meal.

Both got up from the table and exited the
restaurant.

Images of them eating remained.

What else now? He asked.

The museum, She said.

They rode the subway.

In their car, Speaker One sat at one end, Speaker Two at the other. They
texted each other, oblivious to others aboard..

She intercepted the messages and displayed them on the train's windows,
invisible to the two. Occasional lights in the dark subway tunnel flickered
behind.

Others on the car observed the interplay of messages, looked at who
might be transmitting them, and headed for the doors. The doors opened. They
all exited and turned to look at the car. The doors closed. The car left the
station with the rest of the train.

Others turned looking for someone to blame. Speaker One and Two stepped
on the escalator. Halfway up, it stopped.

Speaker One: "We'll have to walk the rest of the way."

The escalator started again.

Speaker Two: "No we won't"

The angry man shouted. "It was those two!" Others turned to
look. Just then another train pulled into the station. "Forget it,"
one of the others said. "Here's another ride. There's always another one."

Sunday, March 09, 2014

Look behind the illusion, like journalists are supposed to.
These two are a layer beneath, under the myth that is perpetuated on the
superficial membrane that most take for reality, the game of the frame, said
the one speaker

Oh, such cynicism, said the other.

That's it. Swallow it whole. Did not the boardwalk collapse? The
journalists will be told how it happened, will read the documents given to them
in conspiratorial tones like precious manna that's really manure. Even though
one of them may have witnessed what we had.

Oh, it was a hallucination.

How can you depart from your senses like that, said the one
speaker.

She leaves the frame of the two speakers' reference and slips
between them, ephemeral. He, a wisp, with her, coils a filament around their
left ankles. She and he merge and sing in one voice. The sound brightens the
filaments and sends a message along the outermost layer of the two speakers'
skin so that it appears to be both sound in their ears and printed words to
their optic nerves.

See, said the one speaker. Is that a hallucination?

I am still suspicious. Are we getting the same
message? said the other.

About Me

I'm a writer, runner, artist, social justice activist; retired as a United Methodist pastor, filmmaker and print journalist. I've got a Ph.D. in philosophy, interpretation and culture from SUNY-Binghamton. I've also been part of or guided social justice delegations to Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Cuba, Chiapas and central Mexico and the Mideast. Much of this work is with Eileen, my creative spouse and partner.. With regard to running, I am a former All-American in track, my best race a 3rd place medal in the 1961 National AAU Championship 600 race at Madison Square Garden in NYC. You may follow me at wildclearing.blogspot.com, at @WesRehberg on Twitter, and on Facebook.